


Wings and Dreams

by Fomorii



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dragons, Essays, Fantasy, Gen, Just a bunch of unconnected stories/chapters, More tags to be added, Mutants, No Fandom - Freeform, Story Collection, Unifinshed works
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-09 12:29:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12276507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fomorii/pseuds/Fomorii
Summary: Just a collection of unfinished works, short stories and drabbles.





	1. Unfinished eagle story

**Author's Note:**

> This one started off as something quite different, though still featured Skaforn. Not quite as old (20) as she is here though. Unfortunately, writers block struck, then RL issues came up, and I never continued it. Maybe someday I will.
> 
>  
> 
> ...Would probably need a bit of a rewrite, however.

The carcass of the sheep was several days old. Although the ravens had had their fill of the choicest parts, there was still enough meat on the bones to satisfy the two scavenging Golden eagles. Their hooked beaks made short work of the rotting flesh as Scarp and Gorm fed. Wanderers both, the two had been quartering the field in search of prey when Scarp had spotted the dead sheep.

Neither of them spotted the female perched quietly nearby.

"Might I partake of your feast?"

Scarp glanced round before fixing the intruder with a challenging glare. Besides him, Gorm mantled aggressively. The new arrival was hunched and old, and the gloss had gone from her feathers, which were frayed and sticking out in odd directions. Her eyes were still sharp though.

"Might I partake of your feast?" She asked again. "I am just a wanderer, and have not eaten for several days."

"Find your own food, old one. This is ours."

She hopped down from the rock she'd been perching on and shuffled forward a few steps. Old as she was, she was still larger than the two sub-adult males, and her talons still wickedly curved.

"That's no way to speak to your elders. Did your parents teach you nothing while you were still in the nest? Had I hatched you, I'd have pecked some manners into you."

"My brother is somewhat rash, but he is right. We found this sheep first, therefore it is ours." Scarp was somewhat more polite than his brother, but even he was unwilling to make way for the female.

Her head bobbed on her scrawny neck. "Were my mate here, I wager you'd stand aside and let us feed."

"I see no mate." Gorm muttered, clacking his beak in disdain.

"No," she agreed. "His bones have long since returned to the earth. I was merely stating what would have happened if he were still alive."

"You have a strange accent, old one. Where do you hail from?" Scarp asked. Despite himself, he found that his interest in this old, scruffy female was rising.

"Tell me where you were raised first. Then mayhap I'll tell you."

"Callanish. That was our birthplace."

"Callanish, was it? It's said that many a wise eagle came from there." A note of admiration had crept into the old female's voice. "Although I myself have never visited."

Scarp preened a while before answering. "You seem to know something of the eagles of Callanish for never having visited it yourself."

"News travels faster than you might think. Besides, I've met many a eagle from there in my time." She'd hopped onto the head of the sheep, and tore off a strip of meat. "Ah, tis good to feed! You asked about where I hailed from, I believe. My mate and I were travelers for a long while, but we finally settled in North Uist."

"You do not sound Scottish. Not completely, anyway."

She tore off another strip of meat before replying. "I was not originally from Scotland, if that's what you mean. Nor was my mate."

"Where were you from, then?" Gorm was the older and less patient of the two brothers, and he was beginning to become bored of the game the female seemed to be playing with them.

"The south." Was the old female's answer."I can't tell you where, for that I've forgotten, but I hail from the south."

"There are no eagles in the south. Not anymore."

"Not wild ones, no."

Scarp ruffled his feathers irritably. "Are you being deliberately cryptic with us, old one? What do you mean by "not wild ones"? Do you mean to say that you came from a collection of some kind?"

"My name, youngster, is Skaforn, not old one. And yes, I suppose you could say that I came from a collection."

"Skaforn? That's not a name I know. Sounds like something from the far north."

"Prehaps it is," was Skaforn's answer. "I was born a captive, and never knew my parents, so maybe they did come from the far north. I don't know."

The two males were silent a long time. Scarp watched the old female for a while. Her eyes, fierce and clear, gazed off into the distance. She seemed to be lost in her own memories.

"Tell us." He said at last.

Skaforn blinked, and transferred her gaze to him. "Tell you what?"

"Your story. It seems you have much to tell. And I was ever interested in the history of others of our kind."

"My story? It is a long one, and one I don't care to revisit these days."

"My brother is curious." Gorm muttered. "And I fear that you've caught my interest as well, Skaforn."

"My story is a long one." She repeated. "I fear you'd get bored long before the conclusion."

Scarp grew aggravated. "Begone then, if you will not share your story with us! Begone and leave my brother and I in peace."

"I do not remember saying that I wouldn't tell you, only that it's one that I don't care to revisit these days." She clacked her beak tiredly. "Very well. If you insist, then I suppose I must."


	2. M is for Mess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a really short drabble. Was originally part of a fanfiction collection, but can pretty much be read as a stand-alone.

The kitchen was a mess. A complete and utter mess. In fact, it looked as though something akin to a bomb had hit it. She had no idea how her husband and son could’ve made that much mess while she’d been shopping. In fact, she hadn’t been out for all that long either. And she was fairly certain that she’d told them to keep the kitchen tidy. Now all she had to do was find the two culprits. Peeking into the living room, she soon spotted them, both curled up on the sofa, fast asleep.  
Somehow, she didn’t have the heart to tell them off anymore. Shaking her head, and with a slight smile gracing her lips, she set to work cleaning up the mess that they’d made.  
Maybe she’d make them do the cooking tonight.


	3. Something about mutants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really have a hard time finishing stories. I'll get a good idea for the first chapter or so, write them out...then get stuck on how to continue, and most of my stuff ends up stuck in limbo. 
> 
> This was one of those ideas that never really went anywhere. Had planned it to be a "mutants outnumber normal people/virus causes mutations in some while killing others" type of thing, but it never really got off the ground.

Usually, it's the mutants who are outnumbered by the normal people.

In books and films, at least.

That isn't how it is in real life. In fact, it's the mutants who outnumber the normal humans. I can't tell you when it started, since it happened before I was conceived, but slowly, over a period of many years, the number of babies born with powers increased. Until they started to outnumber the amount of babies born without powers, they weren't considered much of a threat.

Which, in hindsight, was a big mistake.

They've taken positions of power. Slowly squeezed their way up the ranks, gaining supporters as they go. Gradually, they've unseated normal humans, and pushed them down the ladder, which in turn, enables other mutants to start making their own way up the ladder to the top. They're sneaky about it though. They'll let normal people think that they have that promotion in the bag, then grab it from under their nose.

I'm sure not all mutants are like that. In fact, some of them could be fairly decent. I know some of them are fairly decent. My parents, for one. They're both mutants, yet they're actually nice to normal people. A lot of mutants either ignore or outright disregard the non-mutant population.

Which just fans the flames of dissent, if you ask me.

There have, however, been incidents. Incidents where normal people have tried to overthrow the mutants. These never ended well. For the normal humans, at least.

Maybe they're not as stupid as we've been taught. Maybe, one of these days, they'll come up with a way to be rid of us once and for all.

Then what'll we do?


	4. Just ramblings about horse riding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, I was nervous. And not the type of nervous that goes away after a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some RL stuff.

To be completely honest, I was nervous. And not the type of nervous that goes away after a little while. No, this was the type of nervous that makes you think "What am I even doing?!" I stood on the mounting block, looking at Jethro's back, and all that ran through my head was "Help!"

I'd ridden horses regularly when I was younger. Used to love turning up at the riding school and helping to tack up the ponies. There was something comforting about the smell and the warmth of their bodies. I can still recall the names of some of those ponies at the first riding school I went to, a good twenty years or so ago now. There was Marmaduke (favourite of a lot of people), Spider (no one really liked him) and Minstrel (could be cheeky, but wasn't as bad as Spider). Rode Spider quite a bit, since no one else wanted to, and to be honest, he really wasn't that bad when ridden. He was a right little monster to handle, but aside from a cheeky buck or two, was fine under saddle. I do recall falling off Minstrel at a fun day. We were all having a canter, and he decided to put his head down. Of course, this unbalanced me, and I slid over his head and onto the ground. He just stopped and walked over to the instructor!

Can remember being taught to sit up straight in the saddle, heels down etc. Once the lessons were over, everyone would end up being rather sore and achy. My sister, who had ridden up until that point, decided to quit, since it wasn't for her. I carried on though. Yes, it was hard, and at times I did wonder why I was continuing with it, but at the end of the day, it was something I loved. Something that I could look forward to after school.

Went to a few riding schools in the following years. The second one I didn't enjoy that much. There were only a few ponies I felt  safe on, and one of them was a little too small for me to ride.  I started to lose confidence, and didn't really want to go to the yard. The place shut down a year or so after I started going there, so had to look for somewhere else.

The third one was a five minute drive from my senior school. Dad would pick me up, I'd change into my riding clothes, and off we'd go. It was perched on a hill. Just a small yard, with stables and fields surrounding it, but I loved it. Mainly because of the pony I rode when I first got there. Shazzie was a twenty year old Arabian x Welsh gelding. Been there, done that, worn the T-shirt type of pony. From the moment I sat in the saddle, I felt safe. He didn't put a foot wrong. Well, apart from jumping over the instructor's dog the very first lesson, but we couldn't help that! 

Rode a few others in my time there, those being Tally and Rusty. Also rode round the field bareback on a Shire called Jesse. Her son was there too, but I can't recall his name. 

I spent a happy few years there, but it changed hands, became a private livery yard, and many of the ponies got sold. Shazzie was one of them. I knew his owner from school, so I'm pretty sure he had a good retirement.

Around the age of sixteen, I stopped riding. Lost contact with the last riding stables I went to, and besides, I had exams to concentrate on. Somewhere in the back of my mind was the thought that I'd like to ride again, but maybe once my exams were over. So ten or so years past. I didn't ride once in them. Didn't even have that much contact with horses. But then that changed.

As part of my college course, I had to do a few weeks work experience. As it happened, I ended up doing them at a Riding for the Disabled centre. And stayed on once those weeks were up. At first, riding hadn't even crossed my mind. I was just happy to be back in contact with horses again. The smells had brought all the old memories up. It was hard work, but I enjoyed every single minute of it.

Spent around two and a bit years there. Did get to ride a few times, but only round the school, and to be honest, I was so tense I couldn't really enjoy myself. The saddles were harder than I remembered, and the movement of the ponies felt strange after so many years of not riding. Found it difficult to relax, even though I tried. 

Which brings me to what I wrote at the beginning. I moved house a few months back, ending up somewhere miles from where I was raised. Took about a month or so just to adjust to such a big move, but I started thinking about riding properly again, not just hopping on and walking/trotting round the school, as I had at the RDA. Found a riding school online, and emailed them to ask if I could arrange some lessons. Yes, I just had to ring up. So I did the next day. Arranged a lesson for the day after. Dusted off my hat, got my boots (that my aunt had brought me for Christmas) and made sure I had money. 

So, there I was the next day, about to get on Jethro and feeling really nervous. I knew he wasn't going to walk off, or do anything, I just couldn't bring myself to mount. It took a member of staff to help me into the saddle. Once I was on board, I was fine. The nerves had disappeared. Gone without trace. I relaxed almost instantly. Remembered how to sit, heel down, how to hold the reins. Wasn't tense or anything. It felt like coming home, in a way. It just felt right. I enjoyed every single moment of that half an hour lesson. Yes, the yard is a bit rough round the edges, but the horses are happy and healthy, the staff are friendly, and the instructors make sure that you understand what they want you to do.

It's been a long time coming, but I'm finally back to riding regularly. And I love every moment of it.


	5. Something with dragons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a mess as far as tense is concerned.

For a moment, Ransmor looses sight of the dragon persuing them. Although she remains on guard, her rider relaxes somewhat. Probably thinks that they've gotten bored, and turned back. Humans, Ransmor thought, could be so stupid sometimes. Even so, she dropped the pace slightly. Still, there was something not quite right about this. An uneasy feeling began to form in her stomach, making her scales itch. Even though she couldn't say what was wrong exactly, there was still something...ah! There.

Another dragon had risen, unseen, from the forest below, and was flying a few miles behind. It wasn't the Red-shouldered Chaser that had been shadowing them for the last two hours, however. That one seemed to have given up. Or maybe its rider had. No, Chasers weren't known for their stamina. Even when well fed, they could only persue a target for three hours perhaps. And besides, Chasers were easily outflown, most of the time.

This new dragon, however...Ransmor risks a glance at it. There's something strangely familiar about the shape of it. The wings are long, and fairly broad, which means it's probably one of the species that specialise in soaring. Humm, could be a problem. Even now, it's beginning to pull closer, and Ransmor can pick out futhur details. It's green. Well, that doesn't help much. There are several species that were green in colour. She almost trilled in annoyance, but decided that probably wouldn't be a good idea. Her rider, now aware of the new dragon, had tensed up again. Out of the corner of her eye, Ransmor saw him leaning sideways to peer over her shoulder. He doesn't seem overly worried, but Ransmor picks up a slight feeling of concern from him.

The other dragon is catching up fast. It's now slightly above them, rising on the updrafts, the long, broad wings tilted upwards. Ransmor can now tell the green is rather sickly in shade. Not bright and vivid, but dull and pale-ish. Golden markings run along the edges of the wings, and Ransmor starts to feel very uneasy. If her gut feeling is right, then it'll be very hard to get away from this particular dragon and its rider. Of all the dragons to get sent after them, why did it have to be a Gilded Hawker?


End file.
